


The Jackpot Question in Advance

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cunnilingus, F/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5632999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor has an addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jackpot Question in Advance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tebtosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tebtosca/gifts).



> A little thank you to tebtosca for running so many of the fannish things that make my life so wonderfully filthy. Happy (belated) New Year. I tried for "Catch Me If You Can" and landed on emotionally-damaged fuck buddies?
> 
> Title from "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve." Quote from "O Holy Night."

Victor has a signed letter from the president hanging in his office.  
  
Barack motherfucking Obama had put his John Hancock to a heartfelt thank you for Victor’s work taking down Juarez's second-biggest drug lord.  
  
Victor has a secret.  
  
His phone dings. _Hotel Pennsylvania 228_.  
  
It's a Cali area code this time. He calls them back sometimes, just to hear the empty ring of a burner phone she’d touched for a little while.  
  
Victor has an addiction.  
  
~  
  
She could kill him with her bare hands and right now she's stroking his cock like she made it just for herself.  
  
There's worlds of money she knows about that he can't touch. Things older than sin, things that crawled out of the darkness and gave birth to lust and greed and the petty millions he chases after.  
  
She gives him names like candy. A kingpin here, a gunrunner there, people who are greedy and people who are twisted deep inside. Names on hotel stationery and names from fake email accounts and sometimes just a place.

 

Names whispered in his ear when he fucks her deep and thumbs her clit just right.  
  
Victor racks up collars with her intel that gets him on the hit lists of half the organized crime syndicates in the country, but the scariest part is that she might set him free one day.

 

~  


She knows he’s in Boston the same way she knows everything, the way that maybe he doesn’t want to know about. Even her knock at the door sounds vicious. He’s already sort of hard when he opens it.

 

She won’t look him in the eye but he knows whoever gave her that bruise looks a hundred times worse.

 

She sucks him off filthy, all show and joyless skill but he’s not too good to put a hand in her hair. He keeps it there when he fucks her from behind, rough, nasty, like he can pound away all the frustration inside her.

 

He checks his phone battery when she leaves and he has to laugh. He’d forgotten Valentine’s Day.

  
There's no Hallmark card that says I feel the least lonely when I'm inside you.  
  
~  
  
It's been eight weeks and Victor’s itching for it.  
  
There’s only so much working out a man can do, so many times he can jerk off to the thought of getting his mouth on that peach ripe pussy and wrapping those mile long legs around his head.  
  
He snaps a picture of some Oriole's tickets and posts them to Facebook. His cousin likes it immediately and some asshole he went to high school with cheers for the opposing team.  
  
He leaves the stadium next week and there she is, trench coat and heels and something close to kindness on her face.  
  
She has a boat of all things this time, a boat with more bathrooms than his house and a bench in the shower. Bela rides him and her voice clinks off the walls like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.   
  
She's something to drown in.

  
~

  
Sometimes she fucks him like a favor, those high tea lips pursed and two Harrods-red nails working her clit like he'd better come first or he's going home blue.  
  
They don't make bad guys like her any more. Victors locked up some bad bitches. Women can be cruel. Matriarch drug lords and needle sharp bookies, vengeful and patient. Strong arms with a soft smile but it wears on them, tightens their mouths and scars their eyes over sharp.  
  
Bela's so beautiful.  
  
He'd asked her for her real name once. He hadn't seen her for six months after that.  
  
~  
  
The first time he fucks her bare she cries.  
  
She'd be less terrifying with blood on her face. It's hubris to think he could hurt her but he still tries to stop. Even her tears are elegant, welling up and rolling down the sharp curve of her cheekbone to disappear behind her ear, a secret that's not meant for him.  
  
"I could have you killed," she smiles, goading, always goading, that manicured point digging into him.  
  
He comes inside her and she's the one stroking his back when he shakes.  
  
They stop using condoms after that. He can't catch anything worse than what she's already given him.  
  
~  
  
She must live somewhere.  
  
Philadelphia's a city that would honor an imaginary white guy before they'd put up a statue of Joe Frazier. She doesn't live here but the executive suite of the Rittenhouse suits her.  
  
His mother had a beautiful voice. His second divorce soured him for the holidays but he can still hear her sing.  
  
_Fall on your knees, o hear the angel voices_.  
  
Bela cuts him off at the legs sometimes, regal in an English club chair and nothing but a smile. The carpet’s softer than his mother's pew kneeler.  
  
She spreads her legs to grace his reverence with that dew trap pussy. She could topple an empire, eat him whole, let those teeth down and shred him from the inside out.  They all pretend he leaves in one piece.  
  
She's happy today. Someone died or lost a lot of money or probably both and she slides down her seat until his chin hits metal.  
  
_God_.  
  
She's got a toy nestled jewel thief shiny inside her ass. He plucks it out, all sleek against pink clutch. She laughs when he hauls her over the arm of the chair.  
  
Here, where she's tight and greedy for him, he has to bite his lip to stave himself off. She curves up porn star pretty, taking all of him with a soft sigh and two fingers buried in her cunt.  
  
She comes wetter than anything Victor’s ever seen, so sudden it blindsides him.

 

“They’re gonna charge you a pretty penny for that chair,” Victor says, smelling her hair as much he can before she pulls away.

 

“It’s not like I’m paying for it.”

 

When he pulls out she doesn’t lose a drop.   
  
There's not an inch of her that wasn't made for thieving.  
  
  
-  
  
He lands some Bible Belt anesthesia nurse who's selling organs. It's the sort of sensational shit the higher ups love.  
  
He doesn't ask how Bela knows people who buy livers that aren't suitable for transplant.  
  
~  
  
"I could cuff you here, call it in and they’d put you away forever.”  
  
She grins and slips out of his wrist hold, wriggling over to show her back and crack her skull against his teeth.  
  
He fucks her with blood in his mouth until she comes jagged sounding on his dick.

 

~

 

There’s snow on the ground, ten minutes until the ball drops, and no one else in the office the next times she calls.

 

“What’re you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve,” he sings, that voice his first wife said could melt the panties off a nun.

 

Bela snorts.

 

“I’m in Ibiza,” she lisps. She should never sound so bored when she’s on a beach. Who does Bela spend New Year’s with? What money-laundering fly is wriggling in her Venus trap as she sighs from thousands of miles away?

 

“You’re calling me ‘cause you don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

 

She hangs up, but his phone dings two minutes later with a fuzzy picture of a Saratoga bed and breakfast.

 

“New Year’s Eve,” Victor hums, kicking his feet up on the desk and closing his eyes.

 


End file.
